


Straw Soldiers

by timbrene



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4389851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timbrene/pseuds/timbrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver comes to terms with certain new developments. Fenris lays to rest some old ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straw Soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I may write something that is not about Carver being mystified by his sister and her boyfriend, but it is not this day. Apologies for any mistakes I failed to catch.

The first night, he forgets, and barges into his sister’s room without a second thought to find her naked as a newborn nug and half draped across Fenris, whose eyes are decidedly not on her face.

The elf sits bolt upright (and out of mercy from the Maker himself, he’s wearing shorts), already oversized eyes blown unsettlingly wide; the movement dislodges Marian, who with a squawk befitting a Champion, tumbles off the side of the mattress, dragging the blankets with her.

Fenris, to Carver’s horror, seems less annoyed and more amused; by no means is he happy about the interruption, but before Marian (who is smiling, but who also looks more than willing to creatively disembowel him) nearly shuts his nose in the doorframe, Carver swears he sees the traces of a smirk.

Needless to say, breakfast is awkward that morning, and Carver finds it rather difficult to look at his eggs.

He retreats to the inn’s courtyard by himself immediately after the last fork has been set down.

They hadn’t been able to get a decent look at the place coming in during the night, and by daylight, it looks far better than most of the glorified shacks they’ve seen since Kirkwall. The grass isn’t even, but it’s tamed; there’s a stable on the far west end, old and wooden but sturdy enough to hold through a storm, and beside it a well that appears well-looked after.

The training dummies, though, are a surprise. He wouldn’t have expected this route to be trafficked by soldiers, or anyone else with need to keep a steady sword arm. Yet they look stout enough to take a blow, even if the red of their strings is faded.

He clenches one hand into a fist, letting his strength dig his nails into his palm. It’s been a while since he’s done any proper training.

Perhaps he’ll have to test them.

They’re still perched on either side of the corner table when he re-enters the inn. Neither even looks up. They’re bent in towards one another, Marian’s chin braced on her hands as Fenris gestures along with animated words Carver can’t make out.

He clears his throat pointedly, and they both look up, the trace of a smile lingering on each of their faces.

Maker, they’re disgusting.

“Don’t stop mooning on my account,” he tells them. “I’m going to train a bit outside. Shout if you need me.”

He doesn’t make eye contact with his sister for long, nodding to them both and making a hasty exit up the stairs. Carver’s sword sits propped against the bedframe, sheathed more for subtlety’s sake than anything. He retrieves it hastily, shoves a pack of resin into his belt for good measure, and slings the straps across his back. His arms don’t handle lifting it quite as well as he’d like. He’s embarrassingly out of shape.

He doesn’t look this time when he nears their table, but can’t miss the unmistakable and still entirely baffling sound of Fenris laughing as he passes.

He shakes his head, and steps out into the morning. Hitting things with swords. That, he can handle. _That_ , he knows.

The door to the inn clicks shut behind him, sealing the dull murmur of voices in with it. Carver tracks a muddy path across the yard towards the training ground, feeling the heft of his sword in his hands. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this rush.

He steadies himself, balancing his weight, fingers clenching restlessly on the hilt. His chosen dummy’s straw head stares blankly back at him.

Right. Start small. Otherwise it’s going to hurt later.

A broad hit to the dummy’s side sends a shock through his arms, and he can’t fight back a wince. He curses inwardly, forcing himself back into position. He isn’t some soft Orlesian lordling doing battle with a quill - he’s a warrior of the grey. Warden Hawke, a voice echoes in his head. He swings again, with more force behind it than is probably wise.

He’s not _Hawke_ , not really. That’s always been for her.

Sometimes, he finds he doesn’t begrudge her that as much as he used to.

Another swipe at the left proves easier than the first, if still stiff. He rolls his shoulders. What was it Howe had told him during his training? He closes his eyes, and breathes for a moment, letting himself settle into his own rhythm.

Carver has always fought best with a cause to drive him to it. And there’s only ever really been one cause for him.

He grips his sword tight, and exhales.

One for Father. Frayed strands of burlap fly. He takes a breath, then another, and grounds himself with both feet.

One for Mother. Carver lets the weight of his greatsword pull his swing, and drives a gash down through the shoulder. That one would hurt. That one would _bleed_.

One for Bethany. This time he nearly takes the dummy’s head; he is aiming for the ogre, and the wooden frame creaks dangerously as he takes an extra strike (and another, and another, but who’s counting?) for good measure.

One for-

His swing is jarred to a clanging stop as his blade is checked by the breadth of another. The image splits open, and suddenly he is in the courtyard again, facing straw instead of-

Sputtering and disgruntled, he readies a string of very choice, very Fereldan words for whomever has decided to butt in so suddenly. They die in his throat when his eyes catch up with his mouth.

On the other end of the offending blade stands Fenris, poised with an infuriating level of grace and composure, the look on his face positively brimming over with smug amusement. Carver lets his sword drop to his side, the last thread of his concentration slipping away before he can salvage it.

"What?” he snaps.

He heaves for breath with as much subtlety as he can. The world around him seems too bright in contrast: in his mind it had been dark, there had been danger, and he had been strong. Now there is only the side of an inn and a line of not-real men, and an elf who looks entirely too calm for Carver’s liking.

“I apologize,” Fenris replies at length, though Carver is almost certain from the easy way he says it that he doesn’t mean a word. The elf draws his own sword back, and circles closer to him, eyeing the dummies lined by the wall. Carver watches him flatly. He certainly feels free to take his time. And why not? It’s not as though someone in Marian’s company had been trying to do something productive. Maker forbid.

“Is there something you want?” he presses. He doesn’t bother keeping the edge from his tone; it’s too bloody early for this, and he had just set into a rhythm-

"Battling straw soldiers?" Fenris asks, and his eyebrow flicks upwards too easily. "Perhaps a more capable opponent would do you more good."

Carver is stricken by the eerie resemblance to the petulant smirk he has seen his sister wear so often. She's done her fair share of rubbing off on him, it seems. Brilliant. As though he hadn’t been insufferable enough already. He isn’t sure he can handle the unholy amalgam that could be Fenris’s obstinacy coupled with Marian’s ‘wit.’

“Volunteering?” He does his best to match the elf’s smugness, raising his sword in one hand as a gesture of challenge. He’s never fought Fenris before, but he’s seen a little of how the man holds a battle. Maybe he couldn’t have taken the elf back then, but now?

To Carver’s eternal annoyance, his goading only serves to draw one corner of the elf’s lips up further (the right one, he thinks dully, just like always - is there something wrong with the left side of his mouth, or is it just a matter of honor not to move both sides at once?).

“Alright.” He draws up his greatsword, falling into position. “Let’s see what you have.”

They are surprisingly well-matched. Carver’s strength is countered by Fenris’s grace, his reach by the elf’s flexibility. More than once he finds himself ducking low and nearly stumbling to dodge a wide sweep so quick he barely sees it coming. Fenris knows it, too; though the flurry he can see the smugness plainly written in his features.

"Fair warning," he barks between grunts, "I'm going to knock that bloody smirk right off your face, elf."

Fenris checks his swing and deflects it, turning his own blade to send Carver's reeling back.

"Very well," he counters. "Inform me when you intend to start trying."

_Ass_ , he hisses mentally, and heaves his sword forwards. Fenris sidesteps, leaving him carving through thin air. Carver catches himself, and swings round again.

"You're good," he grants. He gives a sideways nod and raises his guard once more. "Fought better, though."

Fenris grunts in acknowledgement and falls back into his own stance.

"Yet here you stand," he notes - and although his tone is still infuriatingly calm, Carver notices with a heady rush of pride that the other man is catching his breath. "I imagine they accepted your surrender gracefully?"

Carver laughs despite himself, but tightens his hands around the hilt of his sword. He surges forward, and this time he is _certain_ he will land a blow- but Fenris swerves at the last second and he curses as the momentum in his blade pulls him forward instead. He pants, no longer bothering to hide his effort. Alright. He wants a fight, Carver will give him one.

"Come on, then," he goads, stepping backwards twice in invitation. "You can dance around just fine, I get it. Let's find out if you can actually hit anything, eh?"

Fenris tilts his head to one side and regards him for a moment. Then, almost too suddenly for Carver to react, he’s moving. His sword drives right, and Carver spins left. It’s close, but enough. Carver’s pommel drives into Fenris’s side, and the elf, with a thud that will doubtless live on in Carver’s memory forever, hits the ground.

“Got you.” He’s grinning so hard it hurts.

Fenris pulls himself up frustratingly quickly, stumbling only once when he regains his feet.

“Luck,” Fenris says, and this time he truly is out of breath. Carver allows himself a smirk.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Just testing you. Knew you had to have a soft spot somewhere.”

He dodges another of the elf’s blows, falling close enough that the wind on the blade stings in his ears.

“Just means you have something to work on,” he finishes, undeterred. “You’re welcome for finding it.”

“How generous of you,” Fenris says through a smirk. Without warning, he heaves himself to the right, lashing out towards Carver’s shoulder. Carver pivots and meets him strike for strike.

“You’re a Hawke,” he says, and almost laughs at the surprise plainly written on Fenris’s face. “That makes you one of mine as much as one of hers. And I don’t let mine charge off into battle with such a weak left.”

He’s already started his lunge before finishing, and Fenris has already reacted.

“My thanks,” Fenris says, all traces of sarcasm erased. Carver grimaces. Maker, now he’s got to go and make it uncomfortable. The elf’s gait is calm again, if a bit more charged. He recovers quickly, damn him. “A weak left?”

In answer, Carver feigns left and swings right. This time, Fenris’s blade is there to meet his, and each of them is sent reeling.

“Weaker than the rest,” Carver mutters.

The elf's face sets somewhere between determination and amusement, and he nods, shifting his weight.

With a sudden, bracing thud, Carver's back collides with the dirt before he even notices Fenris has moved. Dazed, he braces himself on the dirt below him and attempts to gain what little leverage it offers- but the impact of his fall has seemed to dislodge just about everything in his torso, most notably his lungs, and he falls back coughing roughly.

"Took it easy on you,” he wheezes when he regains enough wind. "Obviously. Do you have any idea how angry my sister would be if I broke her favorite elf?"

The chuckle this earns him is a surprise in itself. The offered hand that suddenly appears above him is positively shocking. Dumbly, he accepts, allowing Fenris to haul him to his feet.

“The sentiment is appreciated,” he says, “but in the future, you needn’t worry.”

Carver brushes the dirt from his armor, trying not to breathe as though he has just been drowning. He glances at the all but wrecked dummy sticking tilted from the ground, and smiles sheepishly.

“Suppose I should do something about this,” he says, motioning. “I have a bit of polish if you aren’t ready to go in, yet.”

Carver tosses him the resin, and he catches it with a nod of thanks. They set to work silently, far enough apart so as not to necessitate conversation, but not so far as to discourage it. It’s strange, how natural it feels. He always rose before his sister, always trained in the mornings away from prying eyes, and this is the first time since Bethany- the first time in a long while he has not been alone in it.

“Why did you come out here, anyway?” he asks suddenly, the thought only just returning to him. “Don’t you have sulking to do, somewhere?”

“Do you tire of me doing so here?”

Carver nearly chokes on air. He’s joking. He’s actually joking. Again, Carver is thoroughly caught off-guard. Silently, he gathers more of the fallen straw from the ground, and winces at the way his muscles protest when he straightens again.

"Didn't Aveline always bother you about teaching her men how to fight?" he recalls, rolling his shoulders with a twinge of pain. "Bloody Qunari would've been done for if the guard had been able to do that."

Fenris makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a hum.

"I suppose it is practical." There's something of hesitation in his voice, and Carver turns to watch him. He's set his sword aside, peering ponderously at something in the air. A long moment passes, and Carver begins to wonder if he hasn't gone into some sort of ancient Tevinter meditative trance. Then the elf's gaze flicks up to meet his, and there is resolution there.

"I..." He pauses, and Carver can practically see him choosing his words. "If you would find it of any help, I am willing to train you."

He is-

He is _what_? Six years of throwing tantrums at the slightest mention of passing on his talents and now- and now _he_ , of all people-

"Are you having a go?"

Fenris shakes his head and straightens, his posture measured, stiff, almost awkward.

"You are a Warden. You lead a dangerous life," he says carefully. "If there is anything to be done to ensure your safety, I would gladly assist."

Carver stares.

"Did my sister put you up to this?" He’s hanging somewhere in between accusation and incredulity.

Fenris’s face twitches into something that can almost be called a smile.

“The offer is mine,” he replies. And after a brief pause: "Consider it a favor for a friend."

He says the word as though it doesn’t quite fit his mouth, and a year’s worth of snide digs at a detached demeanor suddenly sits ill in Carver’s stomach. A friend. Fenris, his friend. If someone had told Carver this eight years ago… But it is not eight years ago, and the man before him now is not the cut-off, emotionless prig with a permanent scowl who tricked them into saving his skin. Neither is Carver the same person who, at the sight of that man, folded his arms and refused to reach out. And if Fenris has decided it’s time to breach this wall, he can do the elf one better.

It’s the one thing they share, his sister and he: the only thing either of them has ever found worth fighting for.

"Thank you, then,” he says. “From a brother."

Fenris gives no reply, but fixes him with a still gaze with eyes just a touch wider than normal. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods. They finish their work without further talk. Fenris hands back the polish, and before Carver’s hands can reach it, ties off the final bit of straw. They stand together, uncertain.

“I haven’t seen her this pathetic for anyone since before Lothering, you know,” Carver says to break the silence. He pauses, and stares down at the polish in his hand. “I’m glad it’s you.”

He tosses the box in the air, and catches it again.

“You love her. So do I.” He cracks a smile at the bewildered look it earns him. “Don’t worry; I won’t tell if you don’t.”

That cracks the tension enough to let them move again. Carver collects his blade and its sheath from where they in the grass, and hoists the straps across his shoulders once more. They start towards the inn side by side, swords at their backs.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he adds when they’ve almost reached the building. He waits for Fenris to glance his way, then smirks. “You’re not as good as you used to be.”

The look on his face at that is entirely unreadable. For a moment, Carver is afraid he’s gone too far. Then a queer smile plays at the elf’s face, and he nods.

“Certain instincts are better unlearned,” Fenris says simply, and pulls open the door.

(The next morning, Carver knocks.)

 

 


End file.
